I Took My Wife To A Party. She Left With Another Man Because He’s Rich. He Threw A Dollar Bill On…

She said I didn’t fit the culture, that my jokes were too blue-collar, and that I made her colleagues uncomfortable. She felt this way because I asked them to explain what they actually produced besides PowerPoint presentations and buzzwords. So I stayed home, worked on my business, coached Little League, and convinced myself that her embarrassment of me was somehow normal, maybe even healthy.

After all, opposites attract, right? Until last Tuesday night, when she walked into my workshop where I was finishing up a custom offset smoker for a guy in Atlanta and said something that made my welding torch feel heavier than it should.

“You have to come to my company’s party this year.”

Not, “I’d like you to come” or “I want you there.” She said “have to,” like I was a prop she needed to complete some picture she’d been painting.

This was weird, cosmically weird, suspiciously weird. For the last five years, I’ve been specifically uninvited, persona non grata, the husband who shall not be named. When your wife suddenly wants you at the party she spent half a decade keeping you away from, well, that’s not an invitation.

That’s a red flag the size of Texas waving in the wind, maybe even on fire. I should have known right then that something was burning, and it wasn’t just the brisket.

A Bear in a Tuxedo

The event was being held at the Belgrave Grand Hotel, which is the kind of establishment where they have a guy whose entire job is to open doors for you like you’ve suddenly forgotten how handles work just because you’re wearing expensive shoes. This place was dripping with the kind of wealth that makes you want to check your bank account just to make sure it hasn’t committed suicide out of shame. The lobby had marble floors so shiny you could probably perform surgery on them.

There were crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling that cost more than my entire first truck, the beater Ford F-150 that got me through my 20s and taught me that duct tape is indeed a valid mechanical solution. I wore my best suit, the charcoal gray one I’d bought for my father’s funeral three years ago and had worn exactly twice since then, both times under duress. It still had the tags from the dry cleaner stapled to the inside pocket.

Miranda had insisted I get a haircut, so I’d gone to my regular barber, a 60-year-old Vietnamese guy named Tommy who charged 15 bucks and told the same three jokes every single time, instead of the $70 salon she’d suggested. My shoes were polished, my cologne was the good stuff from Christmas two years ago, and I’d even trimmed my beard into something that didn’t scream, “I live in a cabin and make moonshine.” I was presentable, damn it, even if I felt like a bear someone had stuffed into a tuxedo for a circus act.

Miranda wore a red dress that could have caused car accidents, maybe even a multi-vehicle pileup with fatalities. It was the kind of dress that made every other woman in the room either want to be her or destroy her, with very little middle ground. The fabric hugged her in ways that reminded me why I’d married her in the first place, back when I was 23 and thought that being pretty and ambitious was the same thing as being a good person.

Her heels were so high I was genuinely concerned about her ability to flee in case of emergency, but she walked in them like she was born wearing stilts. She’d spent two hours on her makeup and hair, which seemed excessive until we walked in and I realized everyone there looked like they just stepped out of a magazine ad for things I couldn’t afford and didn’t want. The ballroom was packed with Miranda’s coworkers, all of them dressed like they were attending the Oscars instead of a corporate holiday party in Nashville.

There was an open bar serving top-shelf liquor, which explained why everyone seemed so enthusiastic about being there. Waiters in bow ties glided around with trays of tiny food that looked like art projects—little towers of something on something else, drizzled with a third something that was probably truffle oil because rich people are legally required to put truffle oil on everything. I grabbed a drink, some kind of whiskey that tasted like it cost more per ounce than gold, and tried my best not to break anything expensive or make eye contact with anyone who might want to discuss quarterly earnings or whatever the hell these people talked about when they weren’t at work.

Miranda immediately transformed into her work persona, which was like watching Clark Kent become Superman, except instead of fighting crime, she was fighting for social status. She laughed louder, touched people’s arms more, and used phrases like “circle back” and “move the needle” without a trace of irony. I stood next to her like a piece of furniture, smiling politely while she introduced me to various colleagues whose names I forgot immediately after hearing them.

“This is my husband, Darren,” she’d say with the same enthusiasm you’d use to introduce your accountant or your podiatrist. “He builds barbecue pits.”

And then she’d quickly pivot the conversation away from me before anyone could ask follow-up questions, like I was an embarrassing fact she needed to acknowledge but not dwell on. I was nursing my second drink and seriously contemplating how quickly I could fake a medical emergency when he appeared. Gavin Cross materialized out of the crowd like a villain in a movie who knows the camera’s on him.

This guy was everything I wasn’t—polished, smooth, the kind of handsome that comes from good genetics and better skincare products. His hair was perfect, like he just walked off the set of a shampoo commercial, not a single strand out of place despite the fact that it was December and statistically someone in the room should have generated static electricity. He had a smile that was probably described as “winning” in his dating app profile, the kind of grin that made you want to punch him even before he opened his mouth.

He had that particular brand of confidence that only comes from never having to assemble IKEA furniture in your life, never struggling with an Allen wrench at 2:00 in the morning while questioning every decision you’ve ever made. Miranda’s entire face changed when she spotted him. I’m talking a complete transformation, like someone had plugged her into an electrical socket and turned her up to 11.

She lit up brighter than our Christmas tree, her eyes sparkling in a way they definitely hadn’t sparkled when looking at me in recent memory. They had that instant connection, that comfortable familiarity that made my stomach drop like I’d just driven over a hill too fast. They laughed at inside jokes, whispered comments that weren’t meant for anyone else to hear, and generally acted like they were the only two people in the room.

I might as well have been a decorative plant, something green and boring in the corner that nobody notices until it dies and starts smelling funny. Gavin barely acknowledged my existence for the first ten minutes. He shook my hand with the kind of grip that was trying too hard to prove something and said,

“Oh, you’re the husband.”

He said it like I was a minor character he’d heard about but never expected to actually meet. Then he turned his attention back to Miranda, complimenting her dress, her hair, her recent presentation that apparently “killed it” in ways I didn’t understand and didn’t care to. They talked about work stuff, about campaigns and strategies and some project they were collaborating on that required a lot of late nights at the office.

My internal alarm system was blaring louder than a smoke detector with dying batteries, but I told myself I was being paranoid, insecure, maybe even jealous for no good reason. Then it happened—the moment that would change everything, the moment I’d replay in my head about a thousand times over the next week. Gavin turned to me with that smug smile, reached into his wallet with the kind of casual confidence that made me want to set something on fire, and flicked a single dollar bill across the table in my direction.

It landed right in front of my drink, George Washington staring up at me like he was disappointed in both of us. Gavin leaned back in his chair, draped his arm casually near Miranda’s shoulders without quite touching her—which somehow made it worse—and said,

“Don’t worry, champ. I’ll take good care of her tonight.”